Black Horizon

by Robert Masello

  “Neither have I. Nobody forgot their lines. The audience seemed to like it.”

  “Be great if it's a hit,” Stephanie said encouragingly.

  “Yeah,” Jack replied, “great.” He pulled a white plastic bag out from under the card table. “I've been putting your stuff in here,” he said. “Leg warmers, stopwatch, leotard, lens solution. I don't know where the Schubert score is.”

  “I do,” Stephanie said, going to the record rack and squatting down. “I stuck it in here,” she said, and slid it out from between the Rolling Stones and Stravinsky. “I didn't even disrupt your alphabetical order with it.” Stephanie knew mat in many things Jack didn't care about order or neatness—but when it came to anything having to do with his music or his instruments, he was as compulsive as they come. “I've got a gig at Wave Hill, some sort of reception.”

  “So you said on the machine.”

  She tried again. “How's Vinnie doing? Is he sticking to his diet?”

  “Not so you'd notice.”

  A pause fell. Stephanie said, “I guess you don't want to do this, huh?”

  “What?”

  “Stay friends, keep in touch.”

  “Sure, sure I do,” Jack replied, walking over to the window and wedging his hands in the back pockets of his jeans. “You and me and Kurt, whenever he can find the time. I was thinking of renting a summer place near his, so we could all go boating together. If the show's still running, I'll just get somebody to sub for me. That way I won't ever have to leave the beach. We could all have a really great time, don't you think?”

  Stephanie got up from the floor, put the Schubert into the plastic shopping bag. She took her scarf off the bed and knotted it under her chin again. “The thing is,” she said, “you'd probably have liked him, under other circumstances. I know what you think—and he's not just another investment banker.”

  Jack turned to face her. “Jesus, you're not going to start telling me what a great guy he is, are you? I mean, what do I have to do—be his friend now?”

  “No,” Stephanie said, walking to the door. “I just wanted you to still be mine.” She stopped, fumbling in the pocket of her coat for something.

  “Give me some time,” Jack said softly. “It's too soon. Just give me some time, okay?” He hated this to be happening.

  “Okay.” She pulled the keys to his apartment out of her pocket, and placed them gently in the tray of loose change that he kept by the door. “Good luck with the show,” she said. “See you around.”

  After she left, Jack stood where he was, wondering what to do next. Finally, he remembered that he hadn't seen the newspapers yet. It didn't seem to matter so much anymore, but at least it was something to do. He grabbed a handful of change and went out to see if he still had a job.

  Chapter Three

  DR. SPRAGUE WAS studying some preliminary lab reports when his assistant, Nancy Liu, tapped on his open door.

  “Yes?” he said, irritably. So what if he'd left the door open—she should know by now that he hated to have his concentration broken.

  “I'm sorry to interrupt, but there's something I thought you'd want to see.” She produced a copy of the New York Post, open to an inside page, and put it on the desk in front of him. There was an ad for Jack LaLanne, some item about Angie Dickinson, and a review that was headlined “Steamroller Rolls Over.” He looked up at her questioningly.

  “What the hell is this?”

  “Under the review, there's a short note, right at the end.”

  His eye dropped down the page, to just below the review.

  After the opening-night performance, Mr. Adolph Zakin, founder and chairman of Zakin Theatrical Properties, one of the largest theater management chains in America, was struck by a car directly outside the theater. He was rushed to St. Luke's-Roosevelt Hospital Center where a hospital spokesman said he remains in serious but stable condition. According to Mrs. Zakin, who was with her husband at the time of the accident, “His life was saved through the intervention of some young passerby. Adolph himself believes he died, and was returned to life. Whatever that young man did, it was a miracle; he must have been an angel from God.”

  Now Sprague knew why she'd shown him the paper.

  “Zakin I can talk to anytime,” he said, “provided he lives. For now, find me that fucking angel.”

  The minute she'd seen the story, Nancy had known Sprague would go for it; maybe, she'd figured, it would even earn her some brownie points—though with Sprague you could never tell. He could just as easily have balled her out for reading the paper on office time and threatened to dock her a day's pay. How, she wondered not for the first time, had she wound up doing such stuff? With a master's in psychology from NYU, and a good shot at her PhD, she was now about to blow the rest of the day tracking down “an angel from God,” at the behest of a boss she'd already decided was halfway around the bend.

  Maybe even three-quarters.

  She sipped the last of her tea from the cup, and called information for the number of the Post. At the switchboard, she asked for Murray Spiegel, the name on the Steamroller review, and was instantly connected to someone who answered “Entertainment.” When she asked for Murray Spiegel, the voice, female, impatiently said, “What's it about?”

  “It's about the note at the end of the review in today's paper. About the theater owner, Adolph Zakin. I'm calling from the Institute of Abnormal Psychology, here in New York—”

  “Murray didn't write that,” the voice interrupted. “I did; I work with him. What do you want to know?”

  Nancy was taken aback by the woman's peremptory tone, and had to quickly collect her thoughts. “First, I'd like to know who actually witnessed the incident. Was it you?”

  “No.”

  “Then where did you get the story?”

  “From a friend of mine, a TV reporter, who did. Why?” She suddenly sounded wary. “Do you know something about it?”

  “Only what I read in the papers,” Nancy replied. “The case interests us, for clinical and experimental reasons. Could you tell me the name of the TV reporter?”

  There was a pause. “Not till I check with her first.”

  “Fine.” Doubtful she'd be of much interest to Sprague, anyway. “How about the name of the young passerby who saved Zakin's life?”

  “Don't know. I don't think my friend does either.”

  “Could she find out?”

  Exasperated sigh at the other end of the line. “Maybe. I don't know. Call me—ask for Arlette—tomorrow, after ten. I'll see what I can do.”

  Nancy was about to thank her, but she'd already hung up.

  Chapter Four

  THE MOOD IN the orchestra pit that night was predictably schizoid. The reviews had been mixed, to say the least; half the musicians thought they were going to be out of work again, and the other half thought the show could make a run of it. Everybody had seen the item about Adolph Zakin in the Post, and thanks to Vinnie they now knew the true identity of the “angel from God.” When Logan entered the locker room with his guitar, Haywood, the black percussionist, did a drum roll on the metal bench and shouted, “Hallelujah! The angel of the Lord has come!” Veronica Berghoffer, the flautist, looked up at Logan with her pale, lashless eyes and said, “That was a wonderful thing you did.” Vinnie, sensing that Logan might not be pleased with the publicity, busied himself with emptying the valves on his trumpet. Logan stashed his coat and guitar case.

  “You really did that?” Haywood asked, sitting down beside Logan. He drew two mint-flavored toothpicks out of his breast pocket, handed one to Jack. Haywood went through about a hundred every night.

  “I guess so,” said Jack. “Anything, you know, to help the show.”

  “Seriously, man, this show could use it.” Haywood was one of the pessimists. “You see that line in the Post, about the band being as flat as the sets?” he asked of the room in general.

  Several of the players laughed, and nodded.

  “Shit, I know I was
in tune,” Haywood said. “I think it was Vinnie could use some help pickin’ out a key.”

  “Yeah?” Vinnie replied, smiling; he was glad they were already off the angel topic. “I carry you guys. Catalano was playing about six bars behind all night.”

  Catalano, the sax player, threw a split reed at him, which, somehow, landed in Veronica's hair.

  “Thanks very much, guys,” she said, gingerly untangling it. “As if I don't have enough problems already.”

  That brought them all down on her, insisting she tell them her other problems. Veronica, not a girl who'd ever excited much masculine attention, was falling all over herself with embarrassment and delight when Burt, the house contractor, came in. An affable piano player in his fifties, Burt had hired most of the musicians for the show, and now acted as sort of a camp counselor. “Okay, okay,” he said, clapping his hands together to get their attention, “time to go to work, folks!”

  “Saved by the clap,” Veronica said, without thinking.

  Haywood nearly fell over laughing. Catalano rolled his eyes and played a scorching three-second solo on his saxophone.

  “Why can't you play like that when you're in the pit?” Burt kidded him. “Now let's get cookin’. Five-minute call was ten minutes ago.”

  Like a cowboy, he rounded them up and herded them out of the locker room. In single file, trading wisecracks, they marched through the narrow passageway, lighted by a red sixty-watt bulb, and into the orchestra pit. While setting up, Logan shot a glance at Vinnie, who sat directly across from him, and Vinnie, knowing exactly what it meant, said, “Basta. No more of the angel stuff, I swear,”

  But that wasn't to be the end of it. When Logan was leaving after the performance, Gus, the backstage doorman, said, “There's a Jap in a black suit, waiting for you outside.”

  “What?”

  “Just what I said. He said you was to see him right after the show.”

  Logan tucked his scarf into his coat, and stepped into the narrow alley that led to the street. At the end of it, there was indeed a Japanese guy, wearing a chauffeur's cap and uniform. A light snow, wet as rain, was blowing in the air.

  “You are Mr. Logan?” he said, and Jack nodded, warily. “I am from Mrs. Zakin. She asks to see you tonight.”

  “Now?”

  “Yes,” the chauffeur replied, with a quick nod of his head. “If it is convenient.”

  “Well, to tell you the truth . . .”

  “The car is right here,” he said, gesturing at a huge black sedan—a Rolls, Jack noted—parked at the curb. “Only take a few minutes.” He opened the back door of the car and held it. Inside, Jack could see maroon leather upholstery, and glass decanters shimmering on a small bar.

  “Only take a few minutes,” the chauffeur repeated. “And straight home afterwards. Please.” He waited, still holding the door open.

  “Where is Mrs. Zakin?” Jack thought to ask. He wasn't about to go tooling out to Westchester or Connecticut just now.

  “Five minutes,” the chauffeur said. “Carlyle Hotel.”

  Good enough. Sliding his guitar across the seat first, Jack climbed in; the door shut with a gentle but firm thump. As the car pulled out, Jack saw Vinnie and Haywood coming out of the backstage alley together, laughing about something and slapping palms.

  The ride to the Carlyle was actually too quick. Jack was just beginning to acclimate himself to the plush interior; he'd poured himself two fingers of Scotch, and was reclining in the corner directly behind the chauffeur's cap. If only Stephanie could see him now, he thought. Stephanie and Kurt. What a hoot if they were standing on some street corner trying to hail a cab while he sailed by in this; Stephanie wouldn't believe it. For that matter, Jack was finding it pretty hard to believe himself.

  The chauffeur got to the car door before the hotel doorman, and said, “Go right up, please. Suite nine-twelve. You can leave that in the car,” he said, referring to Jack's guitar. But Jack said he'd just as soon take it with him.

  Crossing the lobby, he felt that his guitar and secondhand overcoat were drawing the stares of the desk clerk and an idle bellhop. He did his best to radiate rock-star vibes while waiting for the elevator. At the door to suite 912, he was greeted by Mrs. Zakin herself, who took one long look at him first, as if to make sure this was the man she wanted, then smiled and said, “Please do come in, Mr. Logan. I'm so glad to see you.”

  The room wasn't what he'd expected; it was surprisingly spare, with an old-fashioned sofa, a couple of armchairs, a small cherrywood desk by the window. Mrs. Zakin asked if Jack would like anything to drink, and he declined.

  “To eat? I can call downstairs.”

  “No, thanks very much anyway.” He leaned the guitar up against the sofa, then sat down beside it. Mrs. Zakin took the armchair nearest him.

  “I know I don't have to tell you why I wanted to see you tonight,” she said, her fingers lightly resting on the pearl necklace she wore. Her hands were thin, and looked as if they'd been tan so long they could never change back. Jack could see she'd been a beauty in her day. “If you hadn't been there last night, I don't believe Adolph would be alive today.” She frowned. “What am I saying? Adolph would not be alive today. Not if you hadn't been there. You saved his life.” And suddenly there were tears forming in her eyes, and she leaned forward, taking Jack's hand between her own. “You saved his life. I can never, ever thank you enough for that.”

  Jack didn't know what to say. No problem would have sounded a little ridiculous. You're welcome? Anytime?

  “It was Adolph himself who insisted I track you down,” she said, releasing his hand. “He's in the theater business too—it wasn't hard finding you . . . As soon as he's better, he wants to see you himself. You know, Mr. Logan—”

  “Please, just call me Jack.”

  “Jack,” she continued, lowering her eyes, “my husband believes that he did die last night, that his soul had actually left his body and that you somehow managed to . . . reclaim it.” She looked up at him now, fixedly. Her eyes were a pale, watery blue. “He believes that you have some extraordinary power in you, some ability no one else has.” She paused, as if waiting for him to confirm it, to admit that yes, he could, when he felt like it, bring back the dead. Jack shifted uncomfortably on the couch.

  “Mrs. Zakin, all I did last night was some stuff I'd seen on ‘St. Elsewhere.’ TV. Your husband has just imagined all the rest.”

  “Did he imagine you?”

  “Pardon me?”

  “Did he imagine you? In the hospital last night, he was able to describe you—right down to that coat you're wearing. ‘A young man, tall, black hair,’ he said, ‘in a long overcoat. Deep green eyes.’ He said you touched him, that your hands were as hot as a stove. That you covered his eyes with them, protecting him from a terribly bright light he couldn't bear to look at anymore. That the heat from your hands went through him like electricity. That you—and this is exactly how Adolph put it—soldered him back together again.”

  There was a large window behind Mrs. Zakin; a wet snow was coming down hard now, sticking to the glass. “He must have seen me when he came to,” Jack said. If he'd wanted to, he could dimly recall some of what she was describing. But he didn't want to—just as he didn't want to think too long about the darkness, or the storm blowing outside. He knew, if he did, he could lose himself too easily, get swallowed up in the wind and the night.

  “No, that's not it,” Mrs. Zakin said, dismissively. “What Adolph has said is true—he didn't just imagine all this; he wouldn't be capable of it. Especially not in his present state.”

  “But isn't it possible,” Jack ventured, “that his present state is precisely why he's imagined it?”

  Now he could see he'd ticked her off. She sat bolt upright in her chair and looked at him as if she couldn't understand why he was refusing to cooperate. “Mr. Logan, I'm telling you what I know—and what I believe you know, too. Something happened last night that you are refusing to acknowledge—why, I cou
ldn't say. I should think you'd be proud to. But I'm not going to interrogate you. You still have my gratitude, and you always will.” She got up abruptly and turned to the desk behind her. She picked up a white envelope and handed it to him. “This is to thank you for what you did,” she said, though her voice was still cold. Jack took it without thinking. Then it dawned on him that it must be a check.

  “This is money?”

  “Just a token,” she said. “If you'd like more, you can have it.”

  Jack stood up, laying the envelope down on the sofa. The tips of his fingers, where he'd held the envelope, tingled as if he'd been given a shock; he rubbed them together to get rid of the sensation. Mrs. Zakin noticed, and looked at him with even greater puzzlement.

  “I didn't do it for money,” he said.

  “I didn't say you had,” she replied. “But that's no reason not to accept something for it. Take the check.”

  “I can't,” he said, picking up the guitar case.

  She followed him to the door, and when he said good night, she urged him again to accept the envelope.

  “I can't,” he repeated, turning away. “Give it to some charity. But not to me.” He went down the corridor and pressed the button for the elevator.

  Standing in the open doorway of her room, she dropped the hand still holding the check. “Any in particular?” she asked, dryly.

  “Up to you,” Jack said. “Maybe an old-age home for musicians.”

  On the way downstairs, he noted, with relief, that his fingers had returned to normal.

  Chapter Five

  IT LOOKED, FOR all the world, like some sort of crock-pot—a squat ceramic jug, the color of dirt, with a curved metal handle. Sprague had been waiting three days to get it. After scrubbing his hands in the laboratory sink, he loosened the clamps that held the lid down, and then peered inside at the contents.

  The inside of the container being black, it was difficult at first to see what he was looking for, half-submerged there in the solution of ionized water and formaldehyde. But Sprague reached in, his hand cupped as if to cradle a baby's bottom, and lifted it out and into the light. Its weight was even less than that of a baby—approximately three pounds, possibly a few ounces more because of the saturation. Its color, he was pleased to see, was good—the cerebrum a mottled but pearly gray, the pons and cerebellum the rosy pink of underdone lamb. Where it had been severed from the spinal cord, just below the ventral bulge of the medulla, the cut was clean and at the correct diagonal; it appeared to be, as far as he could tell, a perfect specimen. And well worth the wait.